It’s the time of year when festivals and local fetes abound; every weekend is the turn of some nearby town or village to hold its annual fete, be it at Dax, one of the biggest fetes in the region, or of a tiny village with only a handful of inhabitants.

We had a walk around the vide grenier, which is always part of the Nogaro fete; the main roads through the town are closed to traffic and filled with stalls selling everything imaginable, from those people just having a clear out, to professionals selling old tools, organic breads, jewellery, books, jams…….. I picked up a few nice pieces of lace for my latest project and Nick bought a couple of water colour paintings, which now adorn the sitting room walls. But the main reason for going to the vide grenier is to bump into people you perhaps haven’t seen for a while, as everybody goes. The atmosphere is great.

The following day was the running of the cows; not just any old cows, but cows that are specially bred and trained for this, and similar, events. I got there early and found a good vantage point on the corner of the road. A bandas band came past; I can’t say it’s my sort of music, in fact it seems to me as though they all just play as loud and as fast as they can, in order to make as much noise as possible; but each to their own. After they’d finished the only people on the road were the young men selected for the event, ie to run in front of the cows without being trampled. A good natured crowd had built up behind the barriers lining the streets, until the town siren soundedmarking the start. Six cows were released from a lorry at the end of the run; they chased the men past the hay bales, a safe spot to jump to when the cows got too close, round the corner and down to the bottom of Nogaro’s main street. Then back up as far as the lorry, where they were turned around, to do it again, and again, three or four times in total, lasting all of 10 minutes.

Not Pamplona, but entertaining.

Il est la saison de l’année où les fêtes et festivals locaux abondent; chaque week-end est le tour d’une ville ou d’un village à proximité d’avoir leur fête annuelle, que ce soit à Dax, une des plus grandes fêtes de la région, ou d’un petit village avec seulement une poignée d’habitants.

Nous avons eu une promenade autour du vide grenier, qui est toujours partie de la fête de Nogaro; les  routes principales sont fermées à la circulation et rempli de stands vendant de tout imaginables, de ceux des gens qui trient, à des professionnels qui vendent de vieux outils, de pains biologiques, bijoux, livres, confitures …….. J’ai trouvé quelques beaux morceaux de dentelle pour mon dernier projet et Nick a acheté deux peintures, qui ornent aujourd’hui les murs du salon. Mais la raison principale pour aller à la vide grenier est de recontrer des gens qui peut-être on n’a pasi vu pendant un certain temps, mais qui seront la, parce que tout le monde y va. L’ambiance est super.

Le jour suivant était la course des vaches; pas n’importe quelles vaches, mais des vaches qui sont élevés et entrainé pour cela, et des événements similaires. Je suis arrivé tôt et ai trouvé un bon point de vue au coin de la route. Le Bandas est passé, en jouant; je ne peux pas dire qu’il est mon genre de musique, en fait, Il me semble qu’ils jouent aussi fort et aussi vite que possible, afin de faire autant de bruit que possible; mais chacun a sont gout. Lorsqu’Ils avaient fini, les seules personnes sur la route étaient les jeunes hommes sélectionnés pour l’événement, pour courir devant les vaches sans être piétiné. Une bonne foule de bon humeur etait arrivé derrière les barrières qui bordent les rues, la sirène de la ville a sonné, est c’est parti. Six vaches ont été libérés d’un camion au bout de la course; Ils ont chassé les hommes autour du coin et vers le bas de la rue principale de Nogaro. Puis elles sont revenu vers le camion, où ils ont été tournés autour, pour le faire encore, et encore, trois ou quatre fois en tout, d’une durée de 10 minutes.

Ce n’est pas Pampelune, mais c’etait divertissant.

The last three weeks have been Marciac’s annual jazz festival, when the entire town is taken over by musicians, music lovers and artisans of all kinds. The central place is covered by a fabric roof, a stage is erected at one end and free concerts go on from the morning through to the early evening; later on, the big names appear in the chapiteau, a huge marquee that seats around 6000 people.

The rest of the town becomes a huge market, with stalls selling all sorts of artisanal goods, jazz CDs and vinyl, jewellery, clothing. There’s a proliferation of bars, cafes and restaurants, many of the temporary, housed in tents, where you can eat Vietnamese, Moroccan, Italian, food from all over the world in fact. Residents let out their garages and even their kitchens for the duration of the festival, to be turned into guitar builders’ studios, art galleries or cafes selling Morrocan pastries and mint tea to the weary.

The atmosphere is great, so relaxed; if there isn’t enough seating in the place for everyone who wants to listen to a particular band, people just sit on the ground, or some dance around the edges. People of all ages go, from tiny babies, through to the elderly, barely able to hobble around on the walking sticks. You see quite an array of fashions; people around here don’t tend to dress up to go out to the cinema, a meal, a party, or even a wedding; but they dress up to go to Marciac – there’s all sorts of weird clothing!

One day we went to find that most of the day’s bands in the place were from local music schools and colleges; some weren’t to our taste, but others were superb. You could hear tones of Pink Floyd from one band and the keyboard player in another was clearly a Rick Wakeman fan.

We still haven’t been to a gig in the chapiteau; we wanted to go to see Lisa Simone this year, but the weather was foul that day, with torrential rain and thunderstorms, so we decided not to venture out; but next year, I hope we’ll get there.

Sorry the photos are poor; I only took my phone with me.

Ces trois dernières semaines etaient le festival de jazz à Marciac, lorsque la ville entière est prise en charge par des musiciens, mélomanes et artisans de toutes sortes. La place est couvert par une toiture en tissu, un stade est érigé à une extrémité et il y a des concerts gratuits du matin au soir; plus tard, les grands noms de jazz jouent dans un immense chapiteau qui peut accueillir environ 6000 personnes.

Le reste de la ville devient un immense marché, avec des stands vendant toutes sortes de produits artisanaux, des CD de jazz et de vinyle, des bijoux, des vêtements. Il y a une prolifération de bars, cafés et restaurants, beaucoup d’eux logées temporairement, dans des tentes, où on peut manger vietnamien, marocain, italien, nourriture de partout dans le monde, en fait. Les résidents louent leurs garages et même des cuisines pour la durée du festival, pour être transformé en studios, des galeries ou des cafés vendant des pâtisseries et thé à la menthe marocaine.

L’ambiance est super, tellement détendu; si il n’y a pas assez de sièges dans la place pour tous ceux qui veulent écouter un groupe, les gens s’assoient au sol, ou dansent à coté. Les gens de tous âges y vont,  des petits bébés aux personnes âgées, à peine capable de marcher avec leurs cannes. On voit telle mode; des gens d’ici ne s’habillent pas bien pour aller au cinéma, à un repas, à une fete, ou même pour un mariage; mais ils s’habillent tres attentivement pour aller à Marciac – on voit toutes sortes de vêtements bizarre aussi qu’elegant!

Nous sommes allés un jour à constater que la plupart des groupes de la journée venaient des écoles et collèges de musique locaux; certains n’étaient pas à notre goût, mais d’autres étaient superbes. On pouvait entendre des tonalités de Pink Floyd d’un groupe et dans un autre le claviériste etait evidemment fan de Rick Wakeman.

Nous n’avons pas encore assisté à un concert sous le chapiteau; nous voulions aller voir Lisa Simone cette année, mais le temps était affreux ce jour-là, avec la pluie et les orages torrentielles, donc nous avons décidé de ne pas y aller; mais l’année prochaine, je l’espère, nous y arriverons.

Je suis désolée que les photos ne sont pas bonnes; je n’ai amené que mon portable.

When Kieran and Alice announced their intention to marry, their plan was to have as small a ceremony as possible, just themselves, both sets of parents and their witnesses. No fuss.

But there hasn’t been a wedding in the Bellocq family since that of Alice’s parents, 36 years ago, so understandably, everyone in the big, extended family wanted to be there; brothers, aunts and uncles, grandparents, loads of cousins, as well as a few, select friends.

Kieran’s witness, Chris, flew out from Harrogate, while Alice’s, Pierre (who looks just like a young Clark Gable) arrived from Athens; they’d all had a good night on the eve of the wedding and there were some sore heads by Monday morning.

Alice looked stunning in a beautiful blue dress and we felt so proud of Kieran, in his new suit and a ring he’d made on the 3D printer, as his hadn’t arrived in time; he looked so handsome, though I would think that, wouldn’t I?

The sun was splitting the paving as we arrived at the Mairie in Dax and everyone was glad of the cool inside as people spread themselves evenly betwen the two family sides of the seating; we adopted several of Alice’s friends and relations as honorary Cawthray family members for the service, so there wouldn’t be just Nick, Chris and I on “our” side. The lady who performed the wedding had phoned Kieran last week to ask how to pronounce his name and made a very passable attempt at it. The official part was over in minutes, but she went on to say a few words and read a poem which I think is a classic, but which, I have to admit, went over our heads.

By the time we left the Mairie, the sky had clouded over, so we were able to take some photos outside before going back to Alice’s parents’ house for the evening, and to watch the fantastic firework display put on for us by Mother Nature, as the thunder rumbled and the lightning flashed all around. The younger crowd headed off to a family house in the forest, where they could barbecue and party to their hearts’ content, without fear of disturbing neighbours, while we oldies celebrated in a quieter fashion. That’s not to say there wasn’t plenty of champagne flowing as we enjoyed an apero dinatoire, a sort of French finger buffet, containing all the ingredients of a sit down meal.

I’d love to say that Nick and I struggled to learn the names of all of Alice’s relatives, most of whom we hadn’t met before, but it would be more accurate to say that, for the most part, we failed. It was lovely to meet them all, though, and I hope we’ll do better next time we see them, when we have a big wedding party at the end of the month. Alex, Izzy and Gemma will be coming over for that, as well as other friends, so we Cawthrays will be better represented.